so this feels like an 80ies summer again, and
I’m riding my Apache-bike and wearing aviators and a Chevrolet-cap, and J’s dad makes moonshine whiskey down below. he plays the guitar, Creedence, obviously, Who’ll Stop The Rain, and he’s drunk and says he hates Johnny Cash and J and me have played Highwayman over and over and cannot understand why, but J’s dad says no, Johnny Cash just stands there and sings about people in prison and there’s no energy and he’s drunk on moonshine and picks up his guitar and starts singing an old Creedence song again, and there’s no way his wife cannot tell, even if she came from some hillbilly town in Eastern Norway and married a truck driver from Stavanger, a skeet shooter and duck hunter, and she has great tits like all moms back then and works as a cleaning lady at our school and doesn’t mind that her husband pours me moonshine as long as J doesn’t get any
and one day she opens the door topless, she was younger then than I am now
and this feels like an 80ies summer again
like moonshine whiskey and a hillbilly wife with great tits
and Steve Earle and Creedence Clearwater Revival
and a bike and a Chevrolet-cap and a great pair of tits
and everytime I tell her uncle Osvald played the trumpet and was a bandleader and played for kicks she shuts down and says no, Osvald wasn’t a musician, he was an engineeer and chief and worked below deck and never showed himself upstairs, not even on shore leave, and I don’t care if he sailed from Stavanger, Norway to New York and back again, he didn’t play the trumpet, he was an engineer and a chief and worked below deck, and I say OK mom, he was an engineer and didn’t play for the cruisers and stayed down all the time, and I love you, mom, but come on, he played the trumpet, and knew how to jump and shout when that bottle felt empty, and
Saturday, 11 January 2014.
Monday, 11th November 2013. Andalucia, Spain.
Wednesday, 16th October 2013.